


Art Therapy

by GotTea



Series: The Communication Universe [1]
Category: Lewis (TV), Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:59:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's late, there's wine and strangely there are pumpkins too. He's not quite sure what to make of it all.<br/>Post Pieta- pre Endgame. It fits in there somewhere. Sort of a prequel to They Bicker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny little one shot written in just a couple of hours- please excuse any errors.  
> I know I've mucked up the Lewis timeline, but it works for me.  
> I own nothing. It all belongs to the BBC and ITV.  
> Happy Halloween!

He’s looking for Grace. He hasn’t seen her in a while, but when he sticks his head into her office her handbag is still sitting on the sofa and her coat is still hanging from the hook beside the door. That’s good. She’s still here. Somewhere. She is not behind her desk and she’s not in the squad room though. That’s no problem either - it is very late in the evening after all, and even he understands that there is a usual expected end to the working day - but he does want to find her. Needs to find her.

He’s a little tired from the long, arduous week that finally seems to have come to a close, as evidenced by the very last report in the stack he has just signed, sealed and dealt with. It’s time to go home. Except, tonight he doesn’t want to be alone with the memories that are sure to surface once he’s quietly barricaded inside the silent, lonely walls of his empty home. Tonight he wants to forget it all and take his best friend out for dinner and maybe a few drinks too.

It’s that night; the one that kids love, and the one where strange things sometimes happen among the criminal strains of society. He doesn’t want to sit and wallow in thoughts of applying green face paint and a purple bandanna to his little lad before taking him to a party where there were three equally green school friends wearing coloured bandannas and papier-mâché shells.

Instead he searches their basement lair, quickly and efficiently ascertaining that she is not there. That leaves only a few places - one of which is off limits to men, though that certainly hasn’t stopped him in the past. Deciding on another, he heads to the lab, hoping Eve, who he is fairly sure is still in the building too, will know if not where Grace actually is, at least where he should be looking.

Still shrugging into a lab coat, he only looks up as he’s about to walk through the open lab door and the sight that meets his eyes stops him dead in his tracks. The lights are turned down low, soft music is playing in the background, and three women are sitting clustered around the table. There is plenty of laughter and he can see wine glasses and more than one bottle of what looks suspiciously like one of Grace’s favourite reds on the surface between them.

There are also pumpkins.

Pumpkins decorated with an array of interesting and slightly morbid carvings, and with flickering tea lights resting inside. Knives, scalpels and other implements that appear to have been liberated from the pathologists’ tool box are heaped in a pile, in desperate need of a wash to remove the traces of fruit smeared across their surfaces.

He blinks, not entirely sure he hasn’t walked into some strange, alternate reality and as he stands there staring, Eve glances up and sees him. Immediately noticing that her attention has been diverted, her two companions swivel around on their stools to look at him. Conversation ceases instantly.

He raises an eyebrow at them, and all three stare back, looking like very guilty and very caught schoolgirls up to untold matters of mischief.

“Do I even want to know?” he asks slowly, taking it all in.

“Laura accidentally grew some pumpkins,” supplies Eve helpfully, the smirk on her face indicative of the already empty bottle resting between the three of them. Laura Hobson grins at him and raises her glass in welcome as she says,

“Hi Boyd!”

“Hello Laura,” he answers with an amused smile as he ventures into the lab and up to the table so he can examine their artwork in more detail. “How do you accidentally grow pumpkins?” he asks her.

“I made soup last year,” she tells him slowly, taking another sip from her glass, “and when I threw out the rubbish I dropped the seeds. And then the pumpkins grew.” There is a lot of giggling that makes him wonder if he has walked in mid joke.

Grace is lounging against the edge of the table and in the flickering candlelight her eyes are deep, deep blue and slightly mysterious. Mesmerising. She smiles at him and offers him a glass. Their fingers brush as he takes it, and not for the first time he feels that surge of emotion that always, always catches him off guard. He forces it back, murmurs his thanks and finds he can’t tear his gaze away from hers.

Still giggling, Eve shares a long, pointed look with Laura and thrusts an empty stool at Boyd. It appears he is joining them.

“Is there a conference I don’t know about?” he asks Eve, because this is what usually invites a visit from Laura.

“No,” replies the pathologist, shaking her head slowly, thoughtfully. He wonders if there is more than one empty bottle hidden away.

“Eve’s got a new body,” Laura tells him, as if that should explain it all. It tells him enough. The two of them spend far more time than can possibly be healthy playing with rotting corpses. And that’s just during the hours they get paid. Why the hell they do it for fun too is beyond him. He looks over at Grace again, wondering if there’s still a chance of getting her to join him for dinner. A very late dinner at this rate. He should have given up on the paperwork hours ago. His junior officers did, scarpering for the weekend while he had his back turned for five minutes.

She’s toying with one of the pumpkins, making tiny alterations with a scalpel. Rolling over beside her on his stool, he peers over her shoulder at the design. It’s intricate. A Celtic-ish pattern that looks astonishing with the flickering backlight.

“Did you draw that on first, or carve it freehand?” he wants to know.

“Freehand,” she replies softly, still neatening an edge that is bothering her. He’s impressed. He had no idea she could be so artistic.

“It looks good,” he tells her, watching the way she carefully, methodically shaves the cuts until they are smooth and straight.

“Thank you.”

Laura and Eve share another long, knowing look. Eve passes him a knife, Laura hands over a fresh pumpkin.

“How many of these have you got?” he wonders as they each start again. He watches the way they cut lids and empty the insides into a bin bag. Somehow, despite their medical training and familiarity with the tools, neither Laura nor Eve manages to cut as easily and neatly as Grace. Pumpkins must be different from bodies, he muses.

“Lots,” Laura tells him. “My plants are a little out of control at the moment.”

“And we’re making positive memories of Halloween,” Eve continues, pausing to refill the wine glasses. He looks up, momentarily confused.

“Grace thought it would be good therapy,” Laura explains and suddenly he remembers. Last year. Twins. Abduction. A grave. Near death. “I’m somewhat averse to Halloween these days, so…” she trails off, critically analysing the now hollowed out fruit before her, deciding what to carve. She picks up a pencil and sketches away and he wonders how any of them can see what they’re doing in the near darkness. His reading glasses are in his pocket thankfully, but they’re not going to help his artistic abilities.

“Art therapy is a reliable - and relaxing - healing tool,” Grace informs them, serene and very tranquil, despite her concentration.

“So is wine,” grins Eve, and the laughter echoes pleasantly, weaving richly with the candle light and the music. It’s a perfect atmosphere. A little mystery, a little peculiarity.

Quiet. Friendship. Warmth. Comfort.

It’s easy. It’s relaxing.

He glances to his left again, to see what Grace is doing; she’s making slow, almost lazy stokes with the knife that are captivatingly hypnotic to watch, but he can’t tell what the new picture is yet. She catches him watching and pauses, smiling at him as she reaches for her wine.

“Ok?” she murmurs softly and he nods.

“Yeah,” he replies, just as quiet. And he is. How she knows what’s been bothering him today he doesn’t know, but he knows she knows. And she cares. She doesn’t bother him, or pester him to talk, but she listens if he wants her too. Or simply sits and drinks coffee with him, mulling over their case and keeping him company. It’s her presence really, that helps him and heals him. Her calm, gentle warmth and peaceful composure.

He quietly studies Laura as he starts to carve into his pumpkin. Not such a good idea, he concludes when the knife very narrowly misses taking off the tip of his finger. One or the other. He watches her for a few moments, before turning his full attention to the picture he is trying to make. She looks calm, relaxed. Happy. Much better than the last time he saw her, when there was simmering tension and strains of barely masked fear in her. He knows she’s spent a lot of time talking with Grace over the last year, and it strikes him suddenly just how easy it is to overlook what Grace does.

Not what she does for the unit - he’s well aware of her contributions and exactly how much time he spends reading and signing off on her reports - but in a personal sense. How she guides and helps and listens to them all. How she seems to have time for each and every one of them. How she knows him, understands him. Even when he doesn’t understand himself.

She reaches to put some scraps into the bag at the same time he does and their hands brush again. Her skin is warm and soft, and a shiver runs up his arm at the contact.

“Sorry,” she says automatically, and he just smiles.

Someday he’s going to have to tell her. Professional propriety be damned, he can’t live like this forever. Can’t suppress it all indefinitely. He thinks she might know that too.

He thinks of magnets. And gravity.

He thinks of Grace.

He thinks of what it would be like to actually take her hand and hold on to it. To ask her to hold on to him.

Maybe it’s the wine, or the candle light, but he’s feeling very reflective and thoughtful tonight. Maybe it’s the easy company of the women around him, or maybe it’s the oddly relaxing task of carving pumpkins, but for the first time in a long time his thoughts, his mind, are clear and painless. Calm. Perhaps Grace is right, and all her therapy ideas are a good thing after all.

Is that what she’s been doing all along? He wonders. Just by listening? Helping him without him even knowing it?

He’s going to have to tell her one day. In the not too distant future too.

He looks up from his masterpiece. She's watching him this time, and their eyes lock, their gazes hold.

She knows. He can see it reflected in the intensity of her stare. She knows, and she agrees.

At some point, sooner rather than later now, it will happen.

Some things are just inevitable that way.

 


End file.
